


Bolts of Iron

by anotherusedpage



Category: Am Donaustrande - Brahms (Song), Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen, Warning: implied euthanasia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:33:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherusedpage/pseuds/anotherusedpage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some barriers are easier to break than others. Miles learns a song from his grandfather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bolts of Iron

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



> I'm assuming that most people reading this who aren't my recipient will recognise the Vorkosiverse. But this is also based on a Brahms song, which can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGKkOKKL1yk
> 
> Lyrics and translation, here: http://www.recmusic.org/lieder/get_text.html?TextId=4244

The Count is humming something that is not a mountain tune.  
"What's the song, General?" someone asks.  
It's a very old tune. From before the Time of Isolation, maybe even from Old Earth, although like as not to be butchered beyond recognition by now. For a moment, he does not want to answer the question; it's just one more relic of pointless Vor privilege: ancient, lush music played in Vorbar Sultana on instruments too fragile to survive the Dendarii mountains.  
"Something my grandfather taught me," Count Piotr answers eventually.

When the Cetagandans are gone, he uses the bastardised comms systems left in place to broadcast concert hall music from the capital, and does not enquire as to whether anyone listens.

*

"But why _can't_ the man become an officer?"

"Because," the Count snaps, "He is not Vor."

And just like that, iron bars are snapped in place.

*

You would have to put on a radiation suit to nurse the dying of Vorkosigan Vashnoi through their final hours. The city's dead were burned away; these survivors - you cannot really call them survivors - are peasants from the surrounding countryside. Those that make their way back to civilisation must be hardier than most. Deformed by cancers, shrivelled and misshapen, inhuman, at first they are driven away.

"Sir, they're mutants!" his Armsman says.

"Their hands are still between mine!" the Count rages. "What do good mothers do for their mutant children? Why do you think a Vor Lord carries a dagger?"

Arrangements are made. Radiation suits acquired. Drugs, in short supply, administered. The Vor dagger never called for.

"People thought you'd gone mad," his Armsman says, later. "We had visions of them living out pitiful lives somewhere, locked away out of sight."

"I am not that cruel," the Count says. Instead, the dying peasant woman, her face swollen and red-mottled like some horror of Cetagandan war paint, is locked away in the altogether more secure prison of his memories, which he knows she will never leave.

*

"But," says the Count, carefully, "why _can't_ the man become an engineer?"

And just like that, iron bars are melted away.

*

The crunch of the child's fragile bones. His hunched posture and pain-clenched eyes, teeth gritted with determination until his jaw is like to crack. The Count sees much to admire in him. Much to fear, too. He has known too many casualties of war that have lived beyond their time.

The universe has a cruel sense of humour.

The prejudices of the old man's heart do not melt for Miles. They shatter, like glass, sending sharp fragments spinning painfully; glittering shards which cut them both to the core.

 

*

"I request and require," Miles says, stumbling a little over the not yet familiar phrase, "that _you_ be the maiden."  
"Shan't," says Ivan.  
"You _have_ to," Miles says, "when I ask like that. 's the _rules_."  
"Naw." Ivan is certain. "My hands ain't between yours. In fact," Ivan is struck by a moment of inspired pedantry, of the sort that may well get him into trouble in later life, "I'm Lord Vorpatril. You're only Lord Miles. I request and require that _you_ be the maiden."  
"You can't," says Miles. "Can you?" He is horrified - a way for Ivan to win arguments so easily would wreak untold havoc on his accustomed style.  
"I," says Gregor, softly, "Request and Require that you stop trying to use your oath status to _win._ "  
There's a moment of silence. Then:  
"Miles started it," Ivan says, foolishly.

The breath of Miles' oaths is stronger than cold iron, and far more subtle, and like any good Vor lord he has practiced its power since childhood. But he spends the rest of his life trying to _win_ without doing anything other than his best by the people whose hands are locked, as surely as any tower-bound maiden's, between his own.

*

“What are you humming, Miles?” Ekaterin asks.

 _Something that makes me think of you, m’lady_ , Miles doesn’t say.

“Something my grandfather taught me,” he answers, eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta! All mistakes are mine.


End file.
